“Sophie?” His voice calls me back.
I stop and turn around. “Yeah?”
“This is going to be fun.”
A nod is all I can muster. But as I leave, I mutter, “If you say so.”
“Heard that.” Marty’s voice rings out behind me, but I don’t stop. I trudge back to my cubicle and flop into my chair like a deflated balloon at a party gone wrong.
Charlene glances side-to-side, then slinks over like theGrinch. “Well, how’d it go? When does your first column publish?”
“No column. Not yet, anyway.”
She crouches down, resting her chin on her hands on the edge of my desk. “Then what was so important that he wanted you to come in?”
I sit up and lean toward her. “You’re looking at the new sports journalist for the Florida Sun Kings hockey team.”
Her brows do a little wiggle. “Could be interesting being around all those sweaty, muscled players.”
Her eyes take on a dreamy look, while mine prefer to slam shut in disgust. Been there and done that in college, and it was pretty rank then. But if Marty thinks this is the optimal approach to land the column I want, then what choice do I have?
I’ll do my time, like he said. Do the gig, get it over with, and move on to the real and meaningful stuff.
Until then, hockey, here I come.
CHAPTER 3
LUKE
When I gave my notice to the owner of the hardware shop, he flat-out offered to make me the manager of the place. Mr. Tempe said he’d planned to do it at some point, anyway. I thanked him and politely refused, telling him this was what I really wanted, even though it wasn’t. I didn’t want to embarrass him by saying the pay bump wouldn’t be enough, although I’m pretty sure he already knows that.
Regardless of Clearwater’s close proximity, I’d never spent any time in Sarabella. Kind of one of those places I wanted to visit at some point, but not high on the list. But I think I’m going to like it here. The town seems to run at a slower pace, and the people are friendly.
Doesn’t hurt that Gabe and Olivia’s place isn’t far from the arena and a quick ride to Mango Key Beach, which is fast becoming my favorite beach of all. And I can drive back home on the weekends to make sure the house, lawn—and Mom’s roses—stay in good shape.
Practice starts in a week, but Gabe said I had free run of the place to get a jumpstart on training. A year and a half away fromthe ice put a definite dent in my endurance. These pockets of time, alone on the ice, have helped bring my anxiety under control. Plus, I got first dibs in the newly renovated locker room.
Most days, I come in early, but today, the workers needed the rink clear to work on the boards and plexiglass upgrades, so I waited to practice until after they left. Surprisingly, getting back on the ice wasn’t as hard as I expected. Thank goodness for muscle memory, even if they’re sore and cranky at the moment. But this is a far cry from playing with a team who may or may not accept me as their captain in front of spectators.
Despite my progress, that challenge stirs up a sick feeling in my gut. I just need to push through. Then, I’ll adjust and fall into a daily pattern I don’t have to think about. That’s what I tell myself every day as I leave the ice and head to the locker room.
That, and I’m doing this for Kinsley.
When I open the locker door to stow my skates, the bottom hinge comes loose. I gained some handyman skills working at the hardware store all those years, so fixing a hinge is child’s play for me. Unless the screws are stripped, which I’m thinking might have happened when they installed it.
The workers left several toolboxes around, so I bum a Phillips head from the one sitting on the end of the bench. It’s after hours, but I figure they won’t mind as long as I return it. Putting pressure from behind with my free hand, I put more force into the screwdriver, hoping to get a better grip, which makes me grunt.
“Need some help with that?”
I turn toward the unexpected sound of a woman’s voice and become entranced by the biggest brown eyes I think I’ve ever seen perched under a fringe of glossy, dark bangs. Then she blinks her long lashes.
The screwdriver slips and stabs my palm, making me hiss.
She dashes over. “Hey, are you all right?”
Out of curiosity—yeah, let’s call it that—I do a quick appraisal of her long hair pulled back into a ponytail to see if the rest of her hair is as lustrous, which it is. And probably silky to the touch. I drag my attention to my hand, which has started to bleed a little. Nothing serious, but I may have bruised my thumb muscle.
That’ll be fun holding a hockey stick in the morning. “Just a scratch. No worries.”
